


Meet Me Halfway

by aliciutza, normalisjustafairytale



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Daenerys was resurrected, F/M, Ghost is with Jonno so there's that, Slow Burn, and finding their ways back to each other, but rather working through it together, dave and dan still suck and do not know how to write, except unlike dave and dan i try to make sense of them but without providing excuses, i have an explanation for everything, it's a sort of fix it fic but not the kind you think, it's like that one bed prompt but with a twist, looks into the camera like im on The Office, most things that happened in season 8 are taken as such, no one is blindly forgiving nor forgetting, season 8 happened and i am trying to cope, unlike dave and dan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-04-06 18:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19068130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/pseuds/aliciutza, https://archiveofourown.org/users/normalisjustafairytale/pseuds/normalisjustafairytale
Summary: A year has passed since Jon watched Drogon carry Daenerys' lifeless body away. Isolated beyond the Wall, Jon is but an empty shell of what he once was. It all changes one night, when during a violent storm, Drogon brings Daenerys to him—alive and well. Jon and Dany have been given a second chance at life, one that could be filled with love and happiness. Will they learn to fight for it and heal? Or will they allow their pain and anger to consume them for good?Basically this is us taking the bullsh*t show canon and pulling the happy ending Jonerys deserves from its slimy cold dead hands.





	1. Stingher

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Mentions of attempted suicide [not graphic, but be safe] - will put in bold the passage talking about it so you can skip.
> 
> Stingher = (adj. m.) Romanian 1. lonely, lonesome, solitary, isolated; 2. uncomfortable, inadequate, rejected; 3. forlorn.
> 
> Hi! So this is my attempt at a fix-it fic. It could have never happened without Sarah, who just likes to throw endless fic ideas at me lololol. She came with this to me before 8x06 aired because we were talking about the dreaded spoilers and we discussed it some more and next I knew I could see it all in my head... and the rest is history.
> 
> This fic is more about Jon and Dany working through what happened, eventually working towards finding themselves again (since they're both quite lost and broken) and moving on. A year is also a long time, and I assure you both of them have learned some things and came to terms with other things. 
> 
> We have an outline but we don't really know how many chapters this will be. I guess we'll discover together... Without further ado, we hope you like it!

 

Jon opened his eyes in the pitch dark room, having tossed and turned for what felt like hours, ghosts of a past life prodding his mind, pulling at him to join them in the abyss. Too many dead people haunted his days, despite his perpetual loneliness; all but one—the only one he would give anything to see again.

 

As the moons turned, the less clear her features became.  _ Did he even remember the way her hair smelled? Or the shape of her lips? Or the way her skin felt against his thumb? _ Soon he’d forget her face completely, and be left with mere memories of their shared moments… until he’d inevitably forget those too. Just as it had happened two moons prior, when he had woken up screaming her name, drenched in cold sweat, the air refusing to enter his lungs, dread creeping around his neck and squeezing and squeezing, as he realised that he had forgotten the sound of her voice. He had desperately tried and failed to remember it, hysterically going through their shared moments, phrases she had told him, confessions and soft words spoken on a ship heading North to what was to be the end of them. There was no mercy, and the gods most certainly wouldn’t allow him to remember how his name sounded from his beloved’s lips.

 

On a rare night he would be blessed with flashes of silver hair glistening in the winter sun and violet eyes twinkling with adoration. He would drink it all in, like a desperate parched man in the desert. However, nightmares were his constant companion—as rare and as little as he slept now; Drogon slowly tearing him apart limb for limb; his father admonishing him, calling him ‘ _ kinslayer’ _ , ‘ _ craven’ _ and ‘ _ not my son _ ’; his mother—who looked somewhere between her statue in the crypts and an older Arya—angry tears running down her face, the lower part of her dress soaked with blood, accusing him of having killed her for naught, only so he could then kill another woman who loved him as much as she had. 

 

Other times he would dream of a man who reminded him of  _ her _ so much, it wasn’t hard to guess who it could be. He never spoke, he played his harp as tears endlessly ran down his face and blood dripped from a gaping hole in his chest, pooling around his feet. When the song would end, he’d look at Jon with such disappointment it burned his soul, Jon had to look away—his own father shaking his head at the shame he had brought upon him. Then he’d fall and choke on his own blood. At first Jon would scramble to his father’s dying form, hold him as he gave his last breath. But as the vision kept repeating, he’d eventually stopped doing anything but watch the scene over and over again as guilt and contrition ran through his entire body.

 

He deserved it all.

 

He was ready to die that day, regretting what he’d done as soon as he saw the disappointment reflected in her eyes. He had hoped Drogon would kill him, let him join her in death at least. To his dismay, the dragon spared him and took off with her body gods know where. For months he had racked his brain for a reason, yet nothing seemed to explain Drogon’s deliberate choice. It was the question that consumed him during his time in the Red Keep’s dungeons and during the entire voyage to the Wall. The Wall—he was back where he started, isolated, alone, unloved and unwanted. 

 

**On the second night of his arrival he had woken up screaming, the image of his love with blood trickling from her nose and mouth still so clear in his mind, staring at him with eyes full of wrath; ‘ _you’ve destroyed us, Jon Snow_ ’—that’s all she ever said to him now. He stood up from his bed and ran to the lift, the words replaying in his mind on a loop, her voice angrier the closer he got to the top of the Wall. He nearly jumped out of the lift before it reached the top and ran as fast as he could until he got to the collapsed part of it, right where Viserion had blasted through it. The cold wind nipped at his exposed skin, his ears and nose already numb, tears freezing on his cheeks. The void called to him, with promises of joining her in the afterlife; he took a step closer to the edge, the snow already less firm under his boot, crunching as bits broke off and fell down, though he couldn’t hear when they hit the ground. **

 

**It was foolish how he wanted to let go, let himself fall and join her, and he would have done it much sooner had he not known that there was nothing on the other side, but cold and darkness. He would never see her again; they would never be reunited. It hit him all at once and he finally understood Drogon, for there was no greater punishment for him in the world than his survival, bearing the weight of his choices, living with the guilt of what he had done, being tormented by her for the rest of his days, however many awaited him. Death would have been a kindness—one he most certainly did not deserve. He turned and went back the same way he had come.**

 

That night he made up his mind; he left behind all of his Stark belongings and went beyond the Wall, under the guise of leading the Free Folk back to their lands. He didn’t wander with them too long, for without realising, he was headed for the place that would become his refuge until the end of his days.

 

It was just him and Ghost now, even if Tormund dropped in under the pretence of bringing him supplies—although Jon knew it was to make sure he was still alive. He did it more often in the beginning, but when Jon assured him that he wouldn’t fall on his own sword too soon, the frequency of his visits dwindled. He had made the trek himself to the new village a few times for supplies, though he avoided it as much as he could, as he didn’t feel like he was worthy of any company. He didn’t want to venture too close to the Wall and accidentally bump into someone from the Night’s Watch; none of his old brothers were there anymore, but Tormund had said that new people had started coming in and that the rest of the Free Folk were keeping their distance. Jon knew that his  _ cousin _ planned on manning it, for the  _ new King _ intended for it to be a jail for the  _ worst men _ in the Six Kingdoms, and him—the worst of them all.

 

Jon sat up, now that he was sure sleep wouldn’t come at all, his usual restlessness acting up. He dragged his hand over his face, his fingers catching in his beard. He should probably trim it, except there was no point to it, just as there was no point in trimming his hair, now past his shoulders.  

 

Hard as he tried, he couldn’t deny the reason of his refreshed misery—in a few hours the sunrise would mark a year since he betrayed the person he had loved the most in his entire life. He rested his head in his hands, ready to give up, but he knew the burden was his and only his to bear.

 

A screech he had thought long forgotten broke through the night’s deafening silence. Jon’s head shot up from the cradle of his hands, just as Ghost ran towards the cave’s entrance, hackles raised, ears up and alert.  _ It couldn’t _ —there was no way. A quick flash broke through the dark sky, followed by thunder and a roar as mighty as the one he heard exactly a year ago. He was sure of it this time, so he scrambled to his feet, boots forgotten, no time to take anything with him, not even the cloak he usually wore.

 

He ran out into the chill of the last part of the hour of the wolf, when the first rays of the sun would have undoubtedly started to cut through the dark, had it not been for the black clouds enveloping the clearing Jon had claimed as his home. For a brief moment he thought it was his loneliness and regrets conjuring images of the past to help him cope or to further torture him—he did not know which of the two was the real reason. Light flashed, cutting the sky in two, basking all that could be seen in an ethereal hue. In the distance, a shadow slowly fell to the still dry land. The boom that followed echoed between the mountains and mingled with the dragon’s mighty song.

 

Jon panted in relief; he broke into a jog towards where it landed, Ghost following closely behind, even if he could very well reach it before him. His heart was pounding in his ears, blood rushing through his sore limbs, the closer he was getting to the source of the sound. He was cut short in his tracks and almost stumbled when lightning flashed again against the black sky, revealing a small cloaked figure next to Drogon.

 

This was it—the moment Targaryen madness had finally come to claim him too. A sob broke past his lips in relief. There may be no afterlife, but maybe the curse responsible for his family’s demise would offer him the comfort death could never even provide. The clouds boomed again, louder, closer, prompting Drogon to shake off the cloaked figure that had moved onto his back. She stumbled to the ground with a thump but got up quickly, approaching the stubborn dragon again. She looked almost real now that Jon was less than twenty feet away from them. He could finally hear her speak, the cloak billowing around her body, her words being carried all the way to his ears.

 

“ _ Drōgon, kostilus. Skoriot emagon ao maghatan issa? _ ”

 

His heart lodged into his throat. Maybe the gods finally took mercy on him. A sob broke the night’s silence—if it was his he could not tell—her hand froze on the dragon’s snout. Slowly—much too slow—she turned her head. A myriad of small lightnings across the clearing illuminated her face, revealing her big glossy violet eyes, framed by her furrowed brows.

 

He could barely see her anymore, the clouds too thick for any type of light but that of the increasing lightning to permeate, but gods—her presence felt so real, he would have sprinted and picked her up to crush her body against his and have a taste of her lips. His vision blurred with so many unshed tears, he nearly fell to his knees, his guilt weighing on him more than ever. Neither dared move, frozen in place by the possibilities this unique moment offered.

 

Another bolt.

 

The wind knocked off the hood of her cloak and it fell around her shoulders, revealing dark short hair. He took her in, all of her, why was she different, why did it feel this real.  _ How _ —his legs moved seemingly out of their own volition, for next he knew he was standing so close to her he could hear her heavy breathing.

 

_ What sick trick were the gods playing on him? _ He reached his hand to touch her cheek—she recoiled from it, taking a step back until she was flush against Drogon’s shoulder—the reality of the situation collapsed in on him, making it hard to breathe, to speak, to live.  _ Had grief finally consumed him whole? _ Nonetheless, his sanity was a small price to pay for just one more moment with her.

 

“You came for me—" he managed, his voice a strangled whisper, his heart desperately pounding out of his chest.

 

She offered no reply, though Jon could hear the soft whimper—or maybe it was him again.

 

“I knew it was just a matter of time before madness claimed me too—”

 

“Madness?” her words cut through him like Valyrian steel. “If only,” she spat at him, and for the first time he doubted this was just a hallucination.

 

“I-I watched you die,” he shook his head, dread creeping up his spine.

 

This time he felt the rage in her voice when she spoke, “And now I will watch  _ you _ .” He didn’t move. “Dracarys,” she screamed, her voice slightly breaking on the last syllable.

 

Resigned, Jon closed his eyes.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

She regretted it as soon as she said it, yet all she could see as she looked upon his face was the lies and betrayal as he lodged the blade into her heart. All she could feel was pain.

 

She held her breath as Drogon roared in his face—yet no flames came out. She breathed out in relief, hating herself for it, for how she couldn’t just be the ruthless murderer he had been, for not doing what he had so easily done.

 

With another big roar, her son took to the skies again, disappearing in the dead of the night, leaving her behind. 

 

She thought only hate and rage would come if she were to see  _ him  _ again. Yet her heart betrayed her, for when she realised it was truly him, she remembered all the happiness first. It was the damned smile he showed when he saw her; the sheer relief she saw on his face as he recognised her. Dany bit the inside of her cheek and turned her head away, lest he saw the traitorous tears collecting in her eyes.

 

_ I don’t love you I don’t love you I don’t love you _ —she kept repeating to herself, a poor attempt at focusing on the bad feelings, though the more she said it the less she believed it. 

 

“How—" the inevitable question came after a moment.

 

“Why—” she asked instead, the rest of the question too painful to continue. Anger was easier, so she chose to concentrate on it, maybe then she could forget she loved him still.

 

A drop of water clashed with her forehead, broke into droplets and slid over her face. A second, then a third drop hit her cheeks. From under her lashes, she stole a look at him, thankful for the darkness around them. He eventually looked away from his feet and up to the stormy sky—soon the rain would start pouring. 

 

“We should to go inside,” he declared solemnly, without moving.

 

Multiple lightning strips illuminated the sky, allowing her to see him, all of him—he looked different now, but so did she. He wasn’t her Jon Snow anymore, and neither was she the same Daenerys Targaryen. She looked away from him before he could catch her staring.

 

“The storm is coming. We can’t stay here.” He paused. “Follow me, please.”

 

_ This  _ was madness.  _ Why should she willingly trap herself somewhere inside with him? _ Anxiety clawed at her neck, pressing on her chest, all her instincts screaming at her to flee, to not trust him again. She attempted one last time to call Drogon, begging him to come and take her as far away from him as possible. Yet no answer came. The sky boomed above her, her resolve dwindling like a candle flickering in the wind.  _ What other choice did she have? _

 

He had already turned on his heel and was slowly heading to shelter. Ghost stopped and turned to her, waiting for her to follow them. More rain drops hit her face, the air so thick with pressure—the perfect manifestation of what was happening in her mind. Her feet started following them, despite her reluctance. She was just in need of shelter, that didn’t mean she had to trust him,  _ right? _

 

Every few steps Ghost stopped to make sure she was still following, his master walking a few steps ahead, in short calculated strides, fists clenched by his sides, his white tunic billowing in the violent wind.

 

They finally reached a hidden cave entrance that she would surely have missed it had she not been following him. Dany stopped in the threshold, wary of what he’d do next. She was not as defenceless as she once was, yet she wasn’t foolish to think that she could best him in a fight.

 

He must have read her thoughts—or maybe she voiced them, she couldn’t tell anymore, the night’s events surreal—for he went to the makeshift bed and collected Longclaw, then he stopped next to what looked like a cupboard and removed a blade hidden behind a plate. Her heart lodged in her throat, expecting the worst. Instead he went to place both blades in the corner farthest away from them.

 

“Please,” he took a step back and beckoned her inside, his grey eyes reminding her of a past life, in which the roles had been reversed, where he was asking a silent question and she was the one to push the door open in a silent answer. Yet all she could feel now was fear seeping slowly in her bones. She would not survive a second betrayal.

 

The clouds finally cracked above her and rain started steadily trickling down, the cold wind making her shiver. He kept staring at her with that tormented gaze; she swallowed thickly, wishing she could read his mind like she once felt she could. With a deep sigh, he turned and disappeared further into the cave; he came back with bread and salt and wordlessly put them on the table just by the entrance. Ghost pressed his nuzzle to her hand, giving it what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring lick. With no other choice, she held her breath and stepped over the threshold. It was just one night—a few hours at most.

 

Dany broke a small chunk of the bread, dipped it in some salt and brought it to her mouth. She pushed it down, her stomach churning as violently as the storm brewing outside.

 

Neither spoke for a few moments. He had given her space, retreating next to the bed, his gaze trained somewhere on the floor.  _ Had she not dreamed of this moment for the past year? Had she not repeated in her head what she would tell him if they ever crossed paths again? Had she not wished him to suffer as much as she had? _ Yet any attempt at telling him any of what she felt was snuffed out in her throat like a candle.

 

“You can take the bed tonight.”

 

She should have laughed at that invitation for she rarely slept anymore. Dany was about to decline his offer when the rage she had repressed broke free from its bindings. It only took one simple phrase from his mouth.

 

“I won’t harm you. You have my word.”

 

Her head snapped in his direction. “As if vows have ever stopped you before.”

 

He paled even more—if that was possible—hurt clear on his face.  _ Good. He should hurt _ .

 

He finally croaked, “My word meant something to you once.”

 

She could feel the blood boiling in her veins, all she had lost because of him and her buried resentment pushing to the surface. “So I thought.”

 

“I meant it when I said it. All of it.”

“Yes, and then you still broke your word,” she cut him short.

“Do you think it was easy? I had to live with what I've done," his face contorted in a pained grimace.

 

“So did I,” she screamed. “Oh but you didn't even  _ think _ I could come back to haunt you." Venom laced her words now that she wasn’t holding back.

 

“Please—” he took a step closer.

 

“Don't,” Dany flinched, her hand instinctively going to the dagger she wore hidden in the back of her britches, its presence a small reassurance to her growing foreboding. “I had to live with what we've  _ both _ done.”

 

He dared look taken aback by her words. As if he was the only one allowed to hurt.

 

“I never meant to h—”

 

“To murder me—you mean? We both know that's a lie.” She couldn’t stop the words spilling from her broken heart even if she wanted. “You striked to kill, not wound.” Dany sneered, “I wonder when you learned to lie so well. Was it after I had risked my life and my armies for Winterfell? Or was it when you first set foot on Dragonstone?”

 

He finally snarled at her, “That's unfair and you know it. I've  _ always _ been truthful to you.”

“Right until the moment you tricked me and stabbed me in the heart.” He dared look hurt by her words. “It is unlike you to hide behind semantics. Tell me, does it help you sleep better if you tell yourself you didn’t betray or lie to me?”

 

He didn’t dare refute what she’d come to believe.

 

She laughed bitterly. “It surely must work for Tyrion. After all, he’s always been the one to twist words as they served him best.”

 

He stepped closer to the table, looking annoyed with her. “I have  _ betrayed _ you and not a moment passes that I don’t regret it.” He spoke so low she barely understood him, “I regretted it as soon as I did it.”

 

She shook her head, refusing to give in to the small voice that still yearned for him.  _ No.  _ He had killed her, the scar she now bore under her breast burning at the memory. “How long did you plan it?”

“It wasn’t—”

 

“Was it immediately after Sam told you about Rhaegar?”

 

“What?” he looked at her again.

 

“Was Sam the one to suggest it, then?”

 

He dragged his hand over his face.

“Who was it then, Tyrion? Because I am sure Varys had at least suggested it.”

He didn’t dare contradict her. His silence was enough of a confirmation.

 

“Of course,” she spat. “But you wouldn’t just pay attention to him… tell me, who was it that gave you the final push—Arya or Sansa?”

 

He turned to the table and looked away from her; she could see his jaw twitching, his hands grabbing firmly the edge of the wooden table.

 

Something between a sob and laugh broke past her lips.  _ Traitors. All of them. _

 

He finally spoke, his voice even but small, “I am s—”

 

“No,” she yelled. “You don’t get to apologise. None of you get to apologise.”

 

Dany felt herself spiralling, grief and hurt taking over, what little control she had snapped at his defiance. If she were a dragon, she would have torn him apart limb for limb, as he begged for her forgiveness. Ghost moved between them, hackles raised.

 

He finally spoke, looking her in the eye, “You were my Queen. I had sworn myself to you and I failed you.”

 

“That’s all I was—always your  _ queen _ ,” she said with disgust. “ _ Just _ your queen.”

“I—”

 

She couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. Her eyes scanned the cave again; it almost looked like it had been lived in for quite some time. It finally dawned upon her what was amiss.

 

“Why aren’t you in King’s Landing? Don’t you have _ Seven Kingdoms _ to rule?”

He blinked at her numerous times, confusion written all over his face. “What? Why—I was never made king. I told you I didn’t want it. I  _ meant  _ that.”

 

Ghost moved closer to her, and she immediately sunk her fingers in his soft fur, a comfort she allowed herself, just this once. Drogon would come back as soon as the storm passed and she would be as far away as possible from her old life. There was only sorrow for her here.

 

“You destroyed us. I wish our paths had never crossed,” she said full of hatred. She stared down at Ghost’s pristine fur, too craven to look him back in the eye. 

 

The storm raged outside, a stark contrast to the deafening silence inside the cave. The turbulent wind started blowing rain past the threshold. She shivered. From the corner of her eye, she saw him move to the entrance, more shuffling and sounds of wood scraping on stone coming from behind her. The thunder and rain hitting the ground became just a muffled background noise. Neither moved for a long time, and she could still feel him behind her. The night’s events replayed in her head as she clung to every word he had said, trying to decipher some hidden meaning that probably did not exist in the first place. She had been cruel, albeit truthful, yet why did she not feel pleased to see him hurt? Why didn’t his torment relieve her of the guilt and hurt weighing her soul down? How could she feel guiltier today, having seen him broken and tormented? Wasn’t this what she had been telling herself she wanted? 

 

A sharp inhale broke her concentration, her hand frozen over Ghost’s head. She knew that sound all too well; it was a sound that had accompanied her for many nights in the Temple of The Lord of Light. She swallowed thickly, too proud to take back the words that had wounded him so.  _ It was the truth—wasn’t it? _

 

He moved to the bed before she could decide what to say. She watched him as he grabbed some of the furs lining it and spread them out on the floor, as far away from the bed as the cave allowed him.

 

“You should get some rest,” he said, voice rough and small. He didn’t look at her, but collected more furs from a wooden chest and added them to the pile on the floor.

 

It was just one night. She could do this. Ghost went to his master and plopped on the floor, next to his improvised bed. Dany took off her cape and draped it over a chair. She pulled each boot off her feet and neatly placed them next to the bed. He blew out the candles as soon as she was under the furs. 

 

The storm seemed to dwindle after some time, Ghost’s soft snores filled the cave, a gentle lullaby; yet sleep did not come to her as easily these days.

 

“I  _ am _ sorry,” he rasped.

 

The dam broke, tears ran down her face in endless streams, her heart lodged in her throat, words that she could never utter again came to her mind. Outside the cave, the storm raged on again. 


	2. Logique floue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look different after the storm and both Jon and Dany have to take a step back. What happens when they don't have the cover of the night and souls are bared in daylight? Ghost and Drogon are still the bestest boys. 
> 
> Logique floue = (expr. ) French. Fuzzy logic, form of many-valued logic used to handle concepts between true and false, such as the concept of partial truths, where the truth value ranges from completely true to completely false.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there ! This took longer than we had anticipated, and it's on me-my job and preparations for my holiday had me extra busy the month of June. Anyway, not here to give excuses, it just is what it is, sometimes I get busy, other times I get bored and churn out a lot of fics. When I wasn't eating birthday cake and sipping mojitos, or walking in the scorching Spanish sun, I was writing. We hope you enjoy, and hopefully my social obligations will die down and we'll update a lot faster next time. Unfortunately, update schedules are almost impossible when your free time is very unpredictable.
> 
> Happy reading!

He didn’t sleep at all. Not that it was uncommon for him; he was sure that  _ she _ hadn’t either. Until he moved the wooden board that blocked the cave entrance so that sunlight could spill in, illuminating her small figure in his bed, her back turned to him, he had almost doubted, yet again, the events of the previous night. In spite of what he had done, here she was, flesh and bone, breathing the same air he was.

He’d thought himself mad— _ which could still prove to be true _ —when he saw her in the middle of the field. And then she tried to burn him alive— _ granted, he very much deserved it _ .

He wondered why he couldn’t just  _ die _ , why something or someone always found a way of stopping it. He had never seen Drogon disobey her, yet he had done so the previous night, refusing a direct command. Now, he wished he had burned, if only that meant he didn’t have to hear her say she regretted him. 

Regardless, for the first time in a year, at least he felt something more than grief. Remorse was still present, yet seeing her alive ignited a new fire in him—it was there, a flame so small it barely bathed his dark thoughts in an orange light, but he felt it, seeping into his bones, pulling at his legs, like the call of the tumultuous sea during a storm. He held his breath—knowing it would inevitably pull him under, any minute now.

Ghost lazily brushed past his legs, out into the clearing, presumably to hunt. The morning silence was oppressive, but any phrase he wanted to utter died in his throat, choked by its own inadequacy. He had grown accustomed to the sounds that accompanied his every day—the comforting steady song of the waterfalls, the odd crescendo of the chirp of more birds coming back to the once frozen land, Ghost’s paws padding against the cave’s floor, the scrape of his carving knife on wood. Now, for the first time in a year, the lack of conversation suffocated him.

 

She was right, he had failed and betrayed her, and he knew that if he were to apologise over and over until his last breath it wouldn’t make a difference. He had been doing that for the past year, just not to her; his apologies had always been whispered as prayers in the dead of the night, cast as sacred words. After all, he had still murdered the love of his life, manipulated by ideas of false heroism and empty threats. Too many questions whirled in his mind— _ how _ and  _ when _ and  _ for how long _ , and most of all  _ why now _ .  _ Was this a second chance? Was this a mere opportunity to repent and mend what he had done wrong? _ Her angry expression flashed before his eyes, her words cutting through his chest like the knives of the men he had once called brothers.  _ Was this the only chance he had to be in her presence again? Would she be gone soon? Should he beg for her forgiveness again or should he get out of her way, hoping Drogon would soon come and whisk her away—leaving him to repent and serve his punishment for the rest of his days, while she was to find happiness in the arms of a man worthy of her affection?  _ Jon didn't know what he wanted, if he were honest with himself. Torn, he made for the area to the side that he called kitchen; she needed space, and that was the least he could provide for now.

He pulled from the cupboard the food he hoped she would appreciate—some hard cheese brought by Tormund the last time he visited, some smoked ham, half a bread from the previous day and a piece of smoked fish—he put it all on a wooden platter and set it on the table in the main chamber.

When he turned to the bed, she wasn’t in it anymore—Jon’s heart lodged in his throat, the fear of losing her again too much too soon. He rushed to the cave opening, his panic dissipated as he saw her crimson cloak swaying in the morning breeze. A few feet away from him, her small silhouette was an unusual, yet welcome contrast against the fresh green grass and the clear blue sky.

Jon hesitated in the threshold— _ Should he even be there? Did he still have the right of occupying the same space as her? _ And most of all,  _ would she still allow him to? _ She turned to him before he could decide what to do, her gaze carefully investigating the cave, the waterfalls, the clearing—everything. 

 

He dared not blink—lest she disappeared while he did so—the reality of having her again in front of him in broad daylight nearly knocking the air out of his lungs. No, she was not the same, although the changes went beyond physical ones. This  _ Dany _ didn’t look nor sound like the Dany he had last seen in the Iron Throne room. In the back of his mind, a small voice gnawed at him, telling him of foul play, recounting stories of the past, begging him to prod into what had happened in between. 

 

_ A year is sometimes as long as a lifetime, _ he thought, as his memories took him back to the events that unfolded in the year after he had been betrayed by his men. He had changed in that time; no longer was he the green boy that once arrived at the Wall, full of himself and expecting to prove his worth. Nor was he the crow pretending to be a wildling or the man that had stared the Night King in his cold eyes as he raised the dead. The trusting Lord Commander hadn’t survived being betrayed by his brothers. Jon Snow, the man who came back from the dead, filled with anger and bloodlust didn’t exist either. No more was the King in the North, in love with the Dragon Queen that had come to his rescue. Not even  _ Aegon Targaryen _ , the hidden heir to the Seven Kingdoms had survived. He was just  _ Jon _ now, the kinslayer, the queenslayer, the oathbreaker, or whatever was left of a man who drove a dagger into his own heart.

 

Brows furrowed, her eyes eventually landed on him—he wanted to shy away, but he didn’t. He soon found himself further studying her appearance as she continued staring at him, then at the waterfalls. If he couldn’t be the same, neither could she: gone were the braids adorning the top of her head, fusing into one long braid that ran past her waistline—a symbol of her victories and her power, as she’d once told him. Lost was the commanding energy she radiated when she entered any room, that once was enough to make even him want to fall to his knees and give her everything. Even the confidence in her tone and the conviction in her gaze were absent. Instead, this Dany had no braids, her hair, now a brown colour that strangely reminded him of the Dothraki clothes, barely reached her shoulders. Her violet eyes were the same only in their hue—they held such torment that Jon now recognised as his own—dark circles adorned them, proof of her poor sleep. She looked skinnier than he remembered, but maybe his memory failed him. However, all he could think about the moment their eyes locked again, was that he found her even more beautiful than before. 

“This looks like—” she said so quietly he almost missed it.

 

“Aye,” he replied, the rest of the phrase hanging in the air, the thought that she would recognise the similarity to the place he once so eagerly showed her squeezing his heart. He most certainly didn’t allow himself hope she may still love him;  _ no _ . And the way she looked at him at his reply didn’t make his heart do a familiar flip in his chest;  _ no _ .

 

He avoided her gaze as she moved closer—just not close enough. From the corner of his eye he saw her shiver, the thought bringing him back to the previous night, when she had hugged her cloak around her body, despite winter being nothing like it was before. Most of the snow had retreated much further North, to the Lands of Always Winter; since he had settled in these places it hadn’t snowed at all, more and more the green biting into the frozen white mountains.

The wind gently blew her hair in his direction; he couldn’t stop the memories that invaded his mind prompted by the scent he knew all too well. Not for the first time, Jon wished he could go back and resist the manipulation, resist the pull between what others thought was his duty and what he knew it to be; go back and  _ not _ plunge the dagger through her heart, but take her against the throne, tell her how much he loved her and cut down everyone that dared think of going against them. Fire and blood, the two of them together, as it should have been. He forced his eyes open, chasing the treacherous thoughts away. 

 

The painful silence was still keeping them bound, prisoners to their awkward dance of avoidance. He wondered if she shared his fears and uncertainty; if she didn’t know what to say or how to bring up the questions that she probably had for him. Jon didn’t know if he’d rather take the painful yet necessary conversations instead of whatever it was that they were doing now. She looked like she wished to say more, but decided against it; her head whipped in the opposite direction, her  _ brown _ hair bouncing with the sudden movement. 

 

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into the skin of his palm, the desire to reach out and brush the hair from her face, tuck it behind her ear, pull her close and steal just a taste of her mouth so strong, he almost drew blood. He had no right anymore—he stepped away, not trusting himself around her when it was clear she wanted nothing to do with him. The air weighed heavy around them and he had to get away, even if for one moment. 

 

“I need to check the traps,” he blurted. She blinked, stunned by his unprompted explanation, but didn’t challenge him. Nor did he wait for a reply, but pivoted on his right heel, and moved away from her, his clenched jaw the only thing preventing him from screaming in frustration.

 

He stomped all the way around the cave, to the area that led into bushes and then more trees. The contrast between the Dany he once knew and this person made his head spin; the antithesis was almost unbearable, he was tempted to shield his eyes from it, as he would do with the harsh midday sun. Had anyone told him they would meet again, he would have called them mad. And as hard as he had wished for it, had thought of what to say to her and ways of repenting for what he'd done, the reality had been much different. He still didn't know if their first conversation had gone well; _ in all fairness, it had gone well until a certain point _ . Yet, despite her harsh words the previous night, it was a different kind of rage than the one he had seen in her in another life. Her blunt words had cut deep, but their severity didn’t make them lies. On the contrary, for the first time he was given the opportunity to peek past the veil, to see what she must have felt those last days, and maybe weeks before that. Guilt gnawed at him, harder than ever, for as much as he tried, he could see this Dany was closer to the  _ Dany  _ he knew, and not the one that had spoken to him in those last moments.  _ Yet how was it possible—what had happened?  _ His mind swirled with endless possibilities and no concrete answers. If he could, he’d ask;  _ How hard could it be to ask her why she had done it? _ But he didn’t want to chase her away;  _ could he live without knowing, if it meant she would still be alive and well by the end of the day? _ Jon didn’t think he was ready to answer that question. 

 

He took his time checking the traps; it dawned upon him that he hadn’t shown her to the food nor to the water basin where she could clean herself up. Last thing he wanted was to drop in while she was half naked. He lingered as much as he could, collecting the two rabbits caught in the traps that were further in the woods, until a crippling thought made him almost forget the rabbits and run back to the cave— _ What if Drogon were to come and take her away in his absence? _

 

He slowed as soon as he caught a glimpse of her red cloak, relief washing over him in a calming wave. She had moved closer to the waterfalls, though he couldn’t see what she was doing from that distance. 

 

Jon took the opportunity to rush inside—he left the rabbits by the entrance, went to the small basin in the corner to clean up his face, his neck, his ears and underarms. For the first time since he’d come back beyond the Wall he felt self conscious of his bodily odour. He rubbed at his long beard—no wonder she had cringed away from him, he mustn’t look much like his old self. Jon shook his head; he was a fool, wondering whether she still cared about his appearance, when chances were she held no more love for him. He dried himself off and pulled a clean tunic over his head. He hesitated in front of the shard of looking glass he had dug up from the further end of the cupboard; he almost tied his hair back when he realised that was no longer him. He raked his fingers through his long curly hair, brushing it as best as he could. He looked more like Tormund than Jon Snow or even a Stark, and for the first time he admitted it didn’t bother him to be rid of anything linking him to his old life.

 

On his way out, he saw the platter of food left untouched; he frowned, unable to stop himself from worrying about her. However, he noticed that the bed was neatly arranged, the furs that he had used to sleep on the floor stacked on top of a trunk.

 

Jon smiled to himself, feeling strangely lighter than before, the tableau painted a domestic life they might have once had. Suddenly, he could take no more of the silence they used as a safety net between them. He longed to hear her speak, not necessarily tell him what had happened since she left Winterfell, nor tell him about the year since they last saw each other. He just selfishly wanted to hear her voice. He didn’t want to fight, nor hear her tell him harsh truths, nor ask difficult questions. He had spent too much time missing her voice; and if she were to disappear the next day, then he would have at least committed everything about her to his memory again. 

 

He decided that he would not let this opportunity slip through his fingers. Jon saw her approaching the cave as he took out the large wooden board he used to skin and prepare the rabbits and set it down on the grass, next to a hole in the ground he occasionally used to cook certain meats and vegetables. When he came out with two bowls of water, she was already next to the small working station he had set up. She stared inquisitively at the board yet no question was asked. 

 

Jon placed the bowls on the grass next to the rocks surrounding the hole filled with ash. Without thinking, he took out the skinning knife he had placed in his belt so he could carry the bowls. She visibly tensed at the sight of it, so much so that she took two full steps backwards. 

 

He immediately dropped it to the grass. 

 

It was his fault; he should have realised that the sight of him with a knife in his hand would bring back painful memories.

 

“I-I was about to skin the rabbits I brought,” he grasped at something to say to make her not feel threatened. 

 

Her big eyes darted between the empty wooden board and the cave entrance, her hands hidden in her cloak, her feet firmly planted on the ground.

 

“I’ll go get them from inside.” Jon slowly got up and backed away to the cave where he quickly grabbed the rabbits and then, just as slowly, approached his previous spot. Her eyes never left him as he moved. “Would you like to do it instead?” he blurted, hoping she’d feel more comfortable if she were the one holding the blade. “I need to get wood for the fire anyway.” He held his breath until she finally nodded, and approached him, although her eyes still held fear in them. 

 

It pained him that this is where they were now, her being afraid of him and expecting to be betrayed again any moment. No longer would she ever blindly reach her hand for him for comfort, or melt into his touch when he’d seize her in his arms. Jon bit the inside of his cheeks, blood chilling in his veins; he’d done this. He had been the one that made her afraid of him and he couldn’t blame her for showing mistrust. He bitterly cursed the people he once called family, cursed himself for not being more stubborn and less selfless, cursed himself for the choice he made a year prior. If only they could just be with each other like they used to.

 

His thoughts involuntarily drifted to when he had been brought back. _ How long had it taken him to be able to even stay close to people he didn’t know or trust after he’d come back ?  _ He’d carve a part of his heart out and stitch it to hers, right where he’d ripped it, if it meant he’d never have to see the hurt in her eyes. He slowly got up as not to further scare her and went to bring the wood he had promised. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


She hated herself for what she'd become. This skittish shadow of the person she had once been, trembling in front of a small blade. It knocked the breath out of her seeing him with a knife in his hand. It was  _ stupid _ and she hated how it forced her to bare her soul to him, to show him just how deep his betrayal had cut. She supposed that some wounds healed, and people sometimes came back from the dead, but there were deeper, invisible wounds that never completely closed, they just bled a slower stream, sometimes so fine it could barely be seen… until something or  _ someone  _ forced the raw edges of the gash further apart and the blood spilled out and drowned everything in its path.

 

Annoyingly, and as expected, Jon had read her like an open book and left her to herself to slowly push back the still raw edges of her wounds and stop the bleeding; she wanted to hate him for his kindness. She wanted to scream at him, claw at his flesh and take his heart out of his chest, then look him in the eye while crushing it in her fist. Then—and  _ only  _ then—she'd kiss his dying breath away from his lips, ask him whether he thought himself the hero who had slain the big evil dragon in the story. Had their paths crossed a year before, maybe she would have… just so he could feel at least part of the pain she experienced when she woke up in a strange land, having lost everyone and everything she'd ever cared for.

 

Dany found it had been easier to hate him when she couldn't see him. She could concentrate on his betrayal and on her anger when she thought him carefree and happy somewhere, maybe with someone to warm his bed at night. Instead, she now felt  _ everything _ . She was relieved to see him alive, yet enraged to see him unpunished for his kinslaying; she hated and she loved him; she wanted him dead and she wanted him alive. She wanted… she didn’t know what she wanted anymore.

 

She watched Jon's retreating form disappear somewhere on the other side of the cave and finally let herself breathe.  _ She was fine, she could do this for a few more hours _ —she lied to herself, after having spent the entire morning unsuccessfully summoning Drogon. It felt different than when he had rebelled against her in Meereen, or when he had left her in the Dothraki Sea. Their connection was still strong, she could effortlessly reach out and touch it, the tether that bound them had never been clearer and durable; her son simply _ chose _ not to answer her call. It was hard not to get frustrated— _ surely he must feel her anxiety and uneasiness around Jon? _ A dragon is not a slave, yet it was hard for her to understand why Drogon would just choose not to obey her.

 

Her hands had finally stopped shaking; Dany sat on the grass, facing the direction Jon should appear from, and started working on skinning the rabbits. Tension slowly rolled down from the back of her neck, to her shoulders, her arms, reaching the tips of her fingers, where it fell to the ground and disappeared into the grass. With every pull of the fur from the rabbit’s body, she felt more serene—as serene as one can feel in the proximity of one’s murderer. 

 

As she lifted her eyes to reassure herself that she was still on her own, her gaze roamed over the clearing. She hadn't paid much attention the previous night, shrouded in the dark as they had been, yet now, in the lazy sunlight, the image became eerily clearer. Just as she had changed, so had the lands beyond the Wall; there was barely any snow left as far as she could see, lush green grass covered the ground like a blanket. It reminded her of another life, of a similar place—a place that had been sacred to  _ them _ , the last one where she'd known true happiness. Jon riding Rhaegal, her on Drogon, dancing through the air, finally sharing with someone else the feeling of having a bond with a dragon. It was the least lonely she had felt in the longest time. She still remembered how the thrill from the ride had ignited something in Jon, how eager he had been for her after they landed; how he had insisted to take her under the clear sky—’ _ Maybe I want to understand why the Dothraki do it’ _ , he had jested—the heat emanating from the dragons enough to ward off any chill. He'd been passionate and wild, uncaring that they had an audience. Sated, he had bundled her up in his cloak and held her against his chest, telling her of his childhood, of the times he had come to that very spot while hunting with his father, just the two of them, since Lady Stark would have never allowed for her children to be taken so far away from Winterfell. It was their last pure moment of happiness, protected by their ignorance, lost in each other for the last time. 

 

She wiped away the fat tear that had broken away from her eyelashes; it didn't matter anyway. The holiness of the moment had been forever sullied. For the longest time, she had stopped herself from dwelling on happy memories, prohibited herself from even thinking of him and his broken promises. All his 'I love yous' meant nothing now. Still, it was too late to stop the question from forming in her mind— _ why claim such a place as his home? Why live somewhere that holds so much resemblance to something that could have been in another life? _

 

As the fur finally came loose from the rabbit's body with one last jerk, she shook away such thoughts. Nothing really mattered anymore when it came to her heart. She was too broken to deserve any kind of love and she wasn't even sure she'd even want Jon's love—after all, it had been him that had ripped her from this world in the first place. She wondered whether it was possible to go back to feel nothing for a person. So far, she felt more than she wanted to. Just as she thought the love she held for him had finally morphed into hate, she'd come to the disappointing discovery that love and hate had bled into each other for so long that separating them would be an impossible task. She'd loved him too much, with her entire being; him… she wasn't as sure as she had once been.  _ How could she? _ Had he returned at least half of her affections they wouldn't be here now, alone without the other.

 

It was because of him that they never stood a chance as soon as they had stepped foot in Winterfell. Dany remembered all too well all that had chipped away at their love until it lay mutilated next to her lifeless body on the floor of the Throne Room. She knew now that it'd died long before he had plunged the knife into her heart; the poison slowly dripped from his sister's fangs, in the shape of ultimatums and forceful seclusion. It started slowly at the edges of their union, corrosive, eating at everything that was good about them. Samwell had been the one to administer the killing dose to Jon, his corruption spreading through her—and for the first and only time in her life, Daenerys burned.

 

It was cruel to make her face him again after what he'd done… after what they both had done; a type of torture catered to her nightmares. Maybe her punishment had just begun. Maybe all that she'd endured the past year was only a taste of what her true hell would be.

 

She pulled out the organs from both rabbits and cleaned the meat inside and out using water from the bowls Jon had laid on the grass. From the corner of her eye, she saw him approaching with his arms full of wood. If she could, she'd laugh at how domestic they must have looked to someone passing by; just a simple man with his wife, preparing food to share around a bonfire. If anything, R'hllor had a cruel sense of humour, dangling in front of her something she'd yearned so hard for; and then she did the unthinkable, blinded by her anguish. She knew exactly why she was shown what could have been—monsters did not deserve happy endings. Dany pushed back down the bile that raised in her throat, just as Jon tentatively crouched next to her to start the fire.

 

He watched her carefully, as one would a scared wounded animal; she hated it. She needed him to stop looking at her like that; like he still cared for her, like she could find something there, next to him. 

 

There it was again, that silence that stretched between them, like a river that grew wider and wider, pushing them further away from each other. Once, their silences had been comfortable, as rare as those moments had been, for they never got the chance to truly enjoy them, always on the move, always on the brink of war. She looked him over,  _ really _ looked this time. In daylight, there was no hiding how deep his torture ran; she supposed hers showed just as much. Dany wondered what it was exactly that had him losing sleep— _ did he dream of her? Did he see himself killing her over and over again? Did seeing her made it worse or better? _

 

He didn't wear his hair bound anymore, despite it being much longer than she remembered; he'd once despised it falling in his eyes, but too much about them had changed. His beard would soon rival the one of his wildling friend; he looked older than he was, slimmer in the face, although his shoulders seemed broader, his arms thicker. The tunic he wore did nothing to hide how his muscles flexed as he broke a few of the thin wood pieces and arranged them in a circle. She averted her eyes, the task of salting the rabbit pieces much more appealing and interesting than the muscles she had once mapped out with her tongue and lips.

 

The wind blew and she shivered despite herself. She could not get warm; not since she came back. Sometimes she felt as if death itself had crawled under her skin and took residence inside her heart. Dany didn't miss how Jon observed her, yet again. She was about to get up and away from him, try to call upon her son again, but something in the way he almost grimaced in understanding, made her stay. Jon silently offered a piece of fabric she could dry her hands on. She moved closer to the fire and watched as he carefully cooked the meat. She made up her mind then—she'd leave as soon as they finished eating.

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  
  


He didn't know what to say. He racked his brains on how to go about things from now on. He wanted to apologise for not realising how the sight of him with a knife would look… and he wanted to apologise again for what he'd done. Yet every time he thought he had found the right words, he'd choke, unable to utter them. So he cooked the meat and he was glad to see her eat this time. He kept silent, discreetly observing her, occasionally stoking the fire so it wouldn't die down, as she was still shivering; he had experienced that too when he was brought back. Guilt gnawed at his soul like a starving animal; she had been the only one to bring back warmth to his soul, and now he couldn't do the same for her. He'd give anything to hold her, chase away the cold and the darkness she brought with herself from the other side, and he'd do it in a heartbeat, but he couldn't. He'd made his choice—a terrible one—a long time ago.

 

"I should best leave now," she spoke, interrupting his dangerous thoughts. 

 

"Leave?" Jon was confused. 

 

"While it's still light. I need to find shelter somewhere for the night, should Drogon not come before nightfall." To him, she sounded unsure of herself. _Why would she leave?_ _Where would she go?_

 

She stared at him, as if the answer to both those questions was glaringly obvious. "I know how to take care of myself," she replied, so he must have asked the questions out loud.

 

"I-there's a village nearby, and we are not that far away from the Wall. Wha-what if someone sees you? Recognises you?" She continued staring, brows furrowed. It was partially true, what he'd said, but she'd have to walk for days to even arrive at the Wall. It wasn't just worry for her safety. He was afraid he'd never see her again. "Stay," he pleaded. He almost promised he wouldn't hurt her, but he knew it wouldn't bode well, so he bit on his tongue.

 

She stared at her hands, as she played with the hem of her cloak. Jon held his breath, hoping she'd take his offer. The wait was choking the life out of him.

 

"Please," he heard himself say. "For as long as you need it." 

 

"You don't have to feel responsible for me. No one will know if you let me go. No one will even know should I perish," she said, still not looking at him.

 

"I will. So stay." 

 

She finally looked up at him. She nodded and he finally started breathing again.

 

Drogon didn't come that evening, no matter how hard she tried calling him. So, he offered her his bed and he took the floor again. Ghost returned in the middle of the night, smelling of blood and grass. He licked at Jon's hand, as he always did when he came back. Jon could feel Ghost's red eyes boring into his, despite the darkness of the cave.  _ At least one of us should keep her warm _ . As always, the wolf knew him best; with one last nudge to his hand, Ghost padded over to the bed and plopped just by it, his side pressed to the wooden frame. Eventually, Jon heard shuffling from Dany's bed; he swore he could see her hand resting on Ghost's head before finally closing his eyes just for a moment. 

 

He jolted awake, that unexplainable feeling one gets when you miss a step while walking. He must have fallen asleep, although not for long, for his usual night terrors hadn't even had time to start their rehearsed torture on him. His eyes immediately flew to Dany's bed; he breathed in relief when he saw her resting on the side, facing the cave's entrance, her eyes closed. She wasn't asleep however, her hand gently raking through Ghost's thick fur in a constant rhythm. The more he watched her creamy fingers get lost in the white fur, only to resurface near the back of his ears, then disappear on his lower back again and again and again, the more at ease he felt, the heavier his eyelids became, the heavier he perceived his body, as it slowly fused with the ground beneath him.

 

Drogon's mighty roar from outside had both him and Dany jump from their beds and running outside. 

 

“Ñuha dōna, emā māzigon syt nyke,” he heard her say. Outside, the dragon flew in circles above their heads. Hurt lashed at his soul, leaving angry bloody marks at the relief that was clearly etched on her face. He schooled his face to what he hoped was a neutral expression; he knew that he ran out of excuses to make her stay. The moment her son would land, she'd be forever lost to him. She said something else in High Valyrian—unintelligible because of Drogon's screeching—not that it made a difference to him. He came closer to the ground in an elegant dip and just as Jon expected him to land, Drogon pulled up instead and flew away into the clouds. 

 

Jon could finally breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ñuha dōna, emā māzigon syt nyke” = My sweet, you have come for me
> 
> So we are slowly peeling back the layers, and now that we've seen that Drogon is keen on making this work, things will start picking up. And yes, we'll address what Dany did in due time. No rush. 
> 
> Until the next time,  
> Alice & Sarah


	3. Pietà

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daylight brings new revelations. Still, the night seems to be their best confidant.
> 
>  
> 
> _Pietà is a subject in Christian art depicting the Virgin Mary cradling the dead body of Jesus, most often found in sculpture. As such, it is a particular form of the Lamentation of Christ, a scene from the Passion of Christ found in cycles of the Life of Christ._
> 
>  
> 
> _Alternatively, this chapter can be also titled ‘Lamentation’, meaning the passionate expression of grief or sorrow. But I wanted to keep up with the already established aesthetic of the chapter titles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _As always, dedicated to Dave and Dan—fuck you._
> 
>  
> 
> Mentions of slightly suicidal thoughts (in bold), please be safe. Our Dany is currently in a dark place... 
> 
> Life is busy, I am a mess, Sarah is a literal angel, and writing is hardTM. Enjoy!

_No_ , she implored as the cave slowly disappeared around her, stone walls blown into tiny particles in the chilly night air, up and up towards the clouds. _She mustn’t sleep_. Not while she was still stranded beyond the Wall with the last person she had wanted to see; not while she was more lost than she had ever been in her entire life—both her previous and her current one. Ghost’s whine mercifully jolted her awake. Dany buried her fingers in his fur, a silent thanks to her new companion. Since she last saw Drogon, a fortnight ago, the wolf had been her quiet shadow, day and night, always there to bring her back to the present, to ground and keep her away from what lurked in the shadows. 

She propped her head higher, in hopes of chasing sleep away… along with other things that occupied her mind, things she’d rather _not_ think about. The night terrors returned a sennight after Drogon left, exhaustion slowly but surely claiming more of her each night her head hit the pillow. There was no way for her to rest, an endless vicious cycle, never to be broken—she needed sleep to recover, yet she couldn’t get any because she’d be tormented by visions of what she’d done. She knew that sooner or later her body would give in and she'd be unable to wake up from her personal hell. Still, she fought it, for as much as she wanted to say she wasn’t afraid, she still didn’t trust _him_ completely—at least not enough to be unconscious for long periods of time in his proximity.

From the corner of her eye, she saw movement where Jon currently slept. Most nights he was as wide awake as she was. If her heart wouldn't break at thinking how they once used to find comfort in each other's arms on such sleepless nights, she'd laugh at the irony of their predicament—two lonely people, alone _together_. 

Dany wasn't stupid. She could now recognise that Jon hadn't been leading the guiltless serene life she'd imagined for him while she was hiding in Essos. After almost a moon being stuck here, she saw herself in him, could notice the signs of poor rest, anguish and self imposed isolation. Every night, just as the hour of the wolf rushed in, he’d jump up from his makeshift bed; she’d hear his heavy breaths as he inconspicuously tried to rush outside for fresh air. More than once, she wondered what his night terrors showed him— _did he see himself killing her again and again? Did he see her on top of Drogon, burning people alive? Did he see her as the monster she was?_ It didn't matter much; still, curiosity annoyingly ate at her mind, with each night that she spent in the clearing. Come morning, they'd go on with their respective separate lives, ignoring what they saw and heard in the middle of the night just as much as they ignored that they were essentially living _together_.

Lately, other questions started arising; _if Jon wasn't king, then what happened to King's Landing? What was he doing beyond the Wall?_ She'd heard just before her unexpected trip that apparently the Dothraki were back in Essos, although surprisingly not back to their old ways. She had heard a good number of ridiculous things on the rare occasions she'd visited the markets for provisions, yet somehow that had by far been the last thing she had expected. It took her awhile to admit, but the thought that no one had avenged her death had left her feeling grief-stricken and used. Dany gritted her teeth, newfound anger—mostly at herself—coursing through her veins again. That's all she felt now. Rage was easier; rage offered comfort, anything else twisted her soul in new ways each day. Her eyes burned thinking that all she'd done prior to burning King's Landing had been reduced to mere ashes, blown away by the wind from everyone's minds just like the destruction she had left behind.

Not for the first time since she was brought back, she asked R'hllor again: _why her?_ She choked back a sob, biting hard on her cheeks; she turned her face into the pillow, wiping away tears she shouldn't be shedding. _When will R’hllor finally abandon her, when will he just let her die, instead of forcing her to face her nightmares and her mistakes?_ She wanted to rest; she wanted none of this—seeing Jon, thinking on the past, talking about it, reliving it… at least that’s what she’d repeat to herself every night, as Ghost took his place next to her bed and as her fingers buried themselves in his pristine fur. 

She had convinced herself that R'hllor must have brought her back because she was unworthy of the peace and quiet offered to the dead. After all, the wicked get no rest; and that's all she was—had always been— _wicked_.

But to make matters worse, Drogon had brought her to Jon. She wondered whether it was part of a bigger plan, meant to bring her eventual demise. If Drogon was fire made flesh, and R’hllor controlled fire, then maybe Drogon had always been his and not hers. Nevertheless, in the great scheme of things, it made no sense for her son—or for her—to be used only as a tool to do this god’s bidding. To further add salt to the wounds, Kinvara’s words made no sense to her. In truth, little made sense since she was resurrected. 

When she first saw Jon again, she thought for sure that it meant she was to die… for good. But a moon later and she was still breathing. _Why bring her back in the first place if Jon was only meant to kill her again? Did R’hllor have a masterplan?_ If only she could ask him what he wanted to do with her... Instead, the days passed and nothing happened. Jon did nothing; he said nothing, he went out of his way to avoid her, give her space, let her be. In turn, she avoided him back, spending her time around the waterfall and the outskirts of the woods. She'd catch a glimpse of him observing her, and when she thought he was about to talk to her, he'd just retreat into himself at the last moment. Sometimes she wished he’d just snap at her, throw insults, call her a murderer and a tyrant; other times she wished she had the courage to let herself fall off the cliff, be done with the hurt and the torment. _Would R’hllor bring her back again, broken bones and useless body, but her soul still tortured?_ As the first rays of the sun slowly trickled inside the cave, she felt Jon shift to his feet. 

Dany closed her eyes feigning sleep. 

It was only later that day, as she was washing her night shift near the waterfall, that he finally approached her. 

"I will be gone for a while. I am going to check on the traps laid further into the woods." 

Dany didn't look up; her eyes were trained on the white cotton in her hands, clear water finally coming out of it as she wrung it one last time.

"I hope to be back by sunfall," Jon said but didn't move to leave. After a long pause, he added, "Would you like to come along?" His voice sounded meek, his tone almost foreign to her ears.

She finally looked at him. "Into the woods?" He nodded. "You'll have to excuse me if it doesn't seem that appealing." She hadn’t meant for it to come across as harsh, but today, she somehow found herself irritated by his mere presence. 

Just like he had for a fortnight, Jon didn't retort, didn't challenge her; he merely nodded and turned to leave, worsening her foul mood.

"So you're leaving me behind… _again_ ," she asked as she got to her feet, her nails digging into the damp material. 

He looked at her, confused. Eventually, he replied. "I don't want to force you to do anything. Come with me, or stay here. Either way, the choice is yours."

His plain answer further vexed her.

"You must be mad if you think I'm leaving you on your own for that many hours so you can tell others about me," she said as she rushed past him. She didn't stop until she reached the cave, her hands shaking as she caught the twine where her other clothes hung to dry. Eventually, Jon reached her side. 

"I'd never do that," he said.

She closed her eyes, pushing down the hope that sparked inside her broken heart. _Damn him_. Instead, she asked over her shoulder, without looking at him, "What are you waiting for? Lead the way."

They walked in silence, Jon patiently guiding her through the trees—from a respectful distance—until they reached a hidden pathway. She was trying to find the courage to voice at least one of the multiple questions that nagged at her, when suddenly, Jon spoke. 

“If you follow this North, you’ll get to the new Free Folk village in about a day. I suggest you don’t go South,” he motioned the opposite way, “since you’re bound to eventually arrive at the Wall.” 

She furrowed her brows, “The Wall? You mean what’s left of it?”

He hesitated before he replied, “Men have been sent to Castle Black. It serves as a jail now.” 

“Sent? By whom?”

“The King,” Jon replied, avoiding her gaze. 

She stopped dead in her tracks. “It can’t be. _No._ ” Her hands were trembling underneath her cloak. She reached for the dagger behind her back, its cold handle doing nothing to calm her nerves this time. 

_He wouldn’t…_

“Dany—”

“I told you not to call me _that_ ,” she shrieked, her own voice unnatural to her ears. 

“Alright.”

“What have you done?” She had been a fool to trust him this much; she should have left when she had the chance. Liars and manipulators all of them. The kindness and friendship she had shown Tyrion meant nothing to him. _Had he always been after the Throne for himself? Had he purposefully given her ill advice so he could weaken her and then strike her down?_ He had used her from the moment she saved him in Meereen. She couldn’t breathe. They had all used her. Her dress was suddenly too tight, the material of the cloak weighed heavy on her, pushing her to the ground. 

Jon reached a hand to her, his eyes full of worry. She jerked away from him, walking backwards, her hands manically trying to untie the cloak from around her neck. The air would not enter her lungs.

“No—” was all she could say before she turned and started running towards the thickest part of the forest, going nowhere, just needing to get away from Jon, begging Drogon again and again to come save her. The knot finally came loose and she threw the cloak away, her body drenched in cold sweat. 

She didn’t see the log hidden underneath the leaves until it was too late. She fell and rolled down a few times, until her back slammed into a tree. Dany shut her eyes tightly, her palms burning from being scraped against the rocks and branches blanketing the damp ground. 

“Daenerys,” she heard Jon’s frantic call in the distance. She had no interest in replying. Unfortunately, he still found her. “Are you hurt,” he asked, his eyes scanning her head to toe. 

“Don’t,” she stopped him as his hands were reaching to look at her scraped palms. Reluctantly, he retreated his hands. Jon kneeled in front of her, studying her for other injuries. “I am not some bird that needs fixing that you can just send away once she’s all better,” she spat, venom dripping from her words. 

“There’s nothing wrong with needing fixin’,” he whispered, his voice calmer than it had been moments before.

“I can’t be fixed.” _Was she yelling?_ “How do you fix someone who razed an entire city, women and children and innocents all turned to ash indiscriminately? How do you fix someone who should have stayed dead?” _Why was she yelling?_

Her mind was hazy—from the fall or exhaustion, she didn’t know. 

“Why … did you,” Jon whispered. 

She wished he would stop looking at her like he still cared about her.

_Did she say that out loud?_ He was staring at her, waiting; _and was that fear she saw in his eyes?_ “What do you want me to say? That your rejection pushed me to mass murder? That I was too strong for you to reign my wickedness in?” The words singed her throat. “Or that I have always been mad and it was just a matter of time before I _burned them all_ , as Varys said?” The sound around them drowned—she was being pulled under again, the images of charred flesh and screaming children flashing briefly before her eyes. She flinched. 

“No. I want you to tell me the truth. What happened,” his voice clam—too calm—if it was meant as a plea, she did not know, yet it broke her heart all over again.

Dany hesitated, “You never asked before. You came to me and you didn’t care.”

“I did. And I do. Tell me. I should have listened then… I didn’t. But I am listening _now_.” 

“I am afraid you won’t like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway,” her numbed senses could still pick up the warmth in his voice; she both hated and loved him for it. 

“What if there’s no fixing me?” _Why was she telling him this?_

“Don’t say that.” Jon shifted closer, and she didn’t stop him. Her palms were throbbing, pain slowly chasing the numbness away. 

She could smell burnt flesh, her stomach turned and she swallowed down bile. 

"Doesn't matter; it changes nothing," she managed to choke out. Tears were blurring her vision. Dany bowed her head, refusing to let him see her—all of her.

"It changes _everything_." 

She almost laughed at his reply. "Not to the people I've killed it doesn't."

**Dany wasn't surprised that he didn't have a retort to that. She was cold; there it was again—the nothingness that called to her. She forced herself to speak, resisting the riptide just a moment longer, her voice smaller than she would have wanted, but she was tired of fighting against fate.** “Isn’t that why you killed me? If you thought my intentions changed anything or that I could be fixed you wouldn’t have done that." 

The scar under her breast burned as Jon remained silent. 

"What if I was always like this—what if I was never meant to escape it? What if I do it again—"

“You won't," he interrupted.

“How do you know that?”

She knew he didn't; his mouth opened and closed again, the right words evading him. 

**Dany blinked, breaking off the tears that now spilled over her cold cheeks. ”If you also intend on killing me this time, better do it now. Spare me sleepless nights, afraid that I won’t wake up because you finally decided to finish what you started—or, I guess what Tyrion started and you finished for him. I think I don’t want to be Daenerys Targaryen anymore." Eventually, Dany looked at him. She tried ignoring the guilt and pain etched on his face. Her chin trembled as hard as her hands, “I am nothing. _Nothing_." She unsheathed the dagger from her back, “Here, take it, it was easy enough last time."**

**The only constant through her blurry vision was him—his grey eyes; she'd once found all answers in them, yet now they only showed grief. He watched her carefully, his eyes flashing between her face and her hands, again treating her like the scared wild animal she had become. If she had any will left in her, she’d scream at him to do it.**

**Jon reached for the dagger.**

**She held her breath.**

**At least this time there wouldn't be any deceiving or lies. She closed her eyes, praying for a quick end, praying to stay dead. Dany felt the weight of the blade leave her hands and she braced herself for the killing blow.**

One...

Two...

Three. 

The air around her shifted. "I'm not making the same mistake twice," Jon said. 

She inhaled sharply; when she opened her eyes, Jon was heading back to the main path. Pain shot through her hands. Blood oozed slowly from two superficial cuts on her palms. Out of the corner of her eye, white fur appeared from behind the bushes. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jon kept walking because if he were to stop he wouldn't be able to hold it together anymore. Her blood dripping from the blade onto the green leaves sounded much too loud in his ears, bringing him to that wretched day in the Throne room. He'd rather be mangled by direwolves than watch her bleed her life out again on the floor. 

Before he knew he'd walked all the way back to the cave. He collapsed as soon as he passed the threshold, the dagger slipped from his grip and slid across the room. He did this—he destroyed them. If only he could turn back time… 

Sobs violently shook his body, the image of Dany holding the dagger in her bloody hands, blade pointed at her chest, worse than any of the nightmares he’d suffered through the past year. 

It hurt more that she thought him capable of going through it a second time, when he regretted doing it in the first place. The emptiness he saw in her eyes took him back to the Wall, when his brothers had betrayed him. The void called to him everyday, it demanded fire and blood and revenge. Maybe that should have been his first clue to his Targaryen roots. He trusted their shared memories so little than he wondered if he'd ever told her that she'd been the one to fill the gaping hole in his soul, the one to patch him up and make him whole again. 

Jon dry heaved over the cold floor, past blending with present, the red thread of loneliness winding around his throat, his true self beaten down and tired, used and abused and abandoned. In hindsight, owning up to his mistakes was easy—mending them, not so much. Somewhere between Stark and Targaryen he had lost sight of his true self. It wasn’t often that choices revealed their consequences as quickly as they were made, yet he’d been living with regret from the moment he plunged the knife into her chest. 

When nothing came out of his stomach, his breathing finally eased up. There was no going back now—only forward. He fetched Dany’s dagger and wiped it clean. After he carefully put it on her bed, he left the cave, although this time much calmer, and with a purpose. He stripped his clothes one by one, leaving a trail from the cave to the waterfall, and jumped in the cold water. He stayed under until he ran out of breath, his body weightless, despite the burden of his soul. Jon swam until he reached the bottom of the waterfall. Eventually, he came up for air and carefully leaned against the mossy rocks. 

He was happy Drogon decided to leave Dany with him—although he would never admit it out loud. He could understand her frustration and her pain. _Hadn’t he killed the men who murdered him?_ He’d even killed others for less. She must at least have fantasised of doing the same to him. He was still her murderer as much as she was still guilty of burning down King's Landing. One did not excuse the other, nor made the other less true, he knew that now. _But did she know it?_

He wished he could patch the abyss that stretched between them. He’d build a bridge with pieces of himself if it meant he could reach her again, tell her all the things he now knew—if it meant she could be herself again. 

_‘Do you know what kept me standing during all those years of exile? Faith. Not in any gods, not in myths and legends, in myself. In Daenerys Targaryen,’_ she’d told him what seemed like a thousand years ago. 

He would be the one to have faith in her now, help her find her way to herself again, even if it meant he wouldn’t be in her life anymore. He meant it when he said he would not make the same mistakes again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt Ghost’s presence, coaxing a much calmer Dany back to the cave. He swam back to shore, his mind made up. 

He brought out from the cave the dried wood he had accumulated over time and got to work. Halfway through the measuring and sorting the planks by length, Dany showed up at the cave, her cloak in her hands, Ghost at her side. Jon wondered whether his soul would ever stop feeling lighter every time he saw her alive.

There was nothing he expected her to say, not that there was anything they could say in that moment. He gave her a reassuring nod and she disappeared inside the cave. He had left a bowl of fresh water and some clean pieces of cloth for her to use. He hoped she could clean her cuts by herself, since she didn’t seem to want his touch, no matter the form it came in. The gashes on her palms seemed superficial enough, despite how hard she had gripped the blade when handing it to him. Jon chased the painful image away from his head, choosing to concentrate on his task instead. 

His still damp hair slicked to his forehead no matter how many times he pushed the strands away from his face. He had enough of it the moment he almost chopped his thumb off with the axe, so he took a break, stubbornly refusing to tie his hair back. He stepped away to look at his work; although it wasn’t a cot yet, it was shaping up to be a decent one. 

Soon, Dany came outside, her eyes less puffy, one of the cloths he left on the table wrapped around her small pale hand. Ghost came to him and he knew that it meant he would leave soon; Jon gave him a reassuring pat, thanking him for taking care of her and bringing her to safety. They should be alright for a few hours while he hunted. 

When Ghost disappeared in between the trees, he went back to work on his bed, hoping to finish as much of it as he could before they lost daylight. He didn’t dare look up at her, though he could feel her gaze trained on him—the back of his neck riddled with gooseflesh under the intense scrutiny. 

“What is that,” she finally asked, motioning at what now resembled a completed bed frame. 

“Now—a wood frame; tomorrow, hopefully—my bed.”

She frowned. He felt the need to fill the obvious silence. “Why would you need a bed when Drogon would be back any day now,” she asked.

He wanted to say that wasn’t true, since clearly Drogon didn’t intend on coming to get her in the foreseeable future. A fortnight of absence was enough to confirm that Drogon either had other plans for his mother, or had better things to do somewhere else. Yet the way Dany looked at him, fearful although she was trying to hide it, made him decide against telling her that. 

“Regardless, the floor is proving hard on my bones. I suppose I am not that young,” he tried jesting. 

His reply didn’t satisfy her. She went silent again, hugging her cloak closer to her body, as she looked up to the skies. Jon wondered whether she was trying to call her son again just to prove her point. As he secured another plank across the bed frame, he thought back to what had prompted Dany’s panic in the woods. Something about her words didn’t sit right with him. 

“What did you mean by 'he wouldn’t do that'—” her head whipped in his direction, her cold eyes cutting through him like Valyrian steel. 

“Clearly I misjudged you. I thought if anyone would know how hard it is to accept the betrayal of a brother, it would be you.”

“A brother?”

Dany sighed. “Tyrion.”

His hands froze on the frame. “So you know.”

“I didn’t. Not until you mentioned the _King_.”

It seemed that somehow they were having two separate conversations. 

Before he could prod, she asked him, “Why are you here? Why are you not in King’s Landing, ruling?”

“After you…” Jon swallowed, uncomfortable saying what needed to be said. 

“—after you killed me,” she provided.

“Yes, after _that_ , I was taken into the dungeons, to await my trial.” Dany scoffed and looked away. Put that way, it all sounded so simple, yet nothing about it had been simple. It still wasn’t. “Tyrion rounded all the remaining ladies and lords in the Dragon Pit—” he could see her right hand reaching to her back, where he now knew she carried her dagger. “There they decided the fate of the Seven Kingdoms ... and mine. They all named Bran their King, while I was sent to the Wall to serve the sentence for my deeds.”

Her eyebrows shot up and scrunched together, “Chose Bran as King?”

“Aye.”

“A person devoid of feelings as King—how does that work? Does he even care about anything,” she asked, as she stepped closer to him. He could smell the metallic odour of blood soaking through the cloth binding her hand. His vision blurred with memories of her lifeless body in his arms. He closed his eyes, chasing away the thoughts. _She was alive_. Still, his stomach turned. 

He heard her sigh deeply. “What about Tyrion?”

“Hand of the King.”

“My Unsullied,” she asked through gritted teeth, her hand flexing, worsening the bleeding.

“Sent back to Essos, along with the Dothraki,” Jon replied, still unable to look at her. He tasted bile.

“Your sister must have been happy to see all the _savages_ leave,” she took a step back, suddenly aware of their proximity.

Jon dared not contradict her. It dawned on him that this would be just one of the many uncomfortable discussions they would need to have. He didn’t want to hide anything from her. “Sansa got crowned Queen in the North.”

And there it was, just for a fleeting moment, the old fire she used to carry in her eyes—the old Dany, _his_ Dany; he would have missed it had he blinked. 

Her bitter laugh made the hair on his arms stand up.

For a while, she didn’t say anything. She sat on a nearby rock as Jon resumed his work on the bed. The sun slowly started its descent, marking the end of yet another day. 

“You said you were sent to the Wall to serve your sentence,” she paused, “Then why are you here.”

He couldn’t look at her. “The so called _sentence_ was not meant to punish me for what I did… and I refused to serve a realm that did not deserve it.”

Dany remained silent for the rest of the evening. He had to stop working when the sun finally set. Dinner silently came and went, as Dany yet again barely picked at the roasted rabbit on her plate. Ghost hadn’t returned by the time they went to sleep. 

Well into the night, Jon tossed and turned, refusing to close his eyes, afraid he'd see again Dany holding a bloody blade pointed to her chest, asking him to kill her. In spite of the day’s events and difficult discussions, at least they were speaking to each other now; he knew he'd have to do a great deal of speaking from now on. Granted, he had questions for her— _where she'd been and how she got back_ being the ones that interested him the most—but he knew he had to first tell her about everything that had happened in her absence. He owed her that.

It was the hour of the wolf when he heard her scream. Her anguish broke through the night and scared off every soul in the clearing. He jumped to his feet, ready to comfort her, or at least wake her up. In his bed, she trashed, her hair sticking to her damp face. He barely touched her shoulder and she recoiled from his touch, mortified that he would be so close to her. He wanted to explain but she pushed past him and ran out into the chill of the night. 

It only took him a few seconds to react, but when he went outside, she was nowhere to be seen. Her desperate sobs echoed around the clearing, each scream a knife through his heart. He blindly followed the sound and found her on her knees, clawing at her chest. 

He approached her slowly. _What do I do_ —he wanted to ask— _Tell me how to stop it and I will_ —he'd do anything, only not to see her cry again. 

She sobbed harder, her entire body shook with her anguish. 

_What do I do?_

She doubled over her knees, her forehead touching the ground. She cried just as hard, but the sound was muffled by her body. 

It reminded him of when Jorah died. Only then he had seen her this broken hearted. He kneeled next to her, an arm's length away.

"Tell me how to make it better," he finally found his voice to ask.

Jon thought she hadn't heard him for she had said nothing for a long time. Although she was still crying, her sobs were quieter, less violent now.

“Just stay," Dany said, her voice raw and small.

So he did. This time, as he took the first step across the abyss, the air held him up, as firm as the ground under his knees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until the next time, whenever the old gods and the new decide to let me write...

**Author's Note:**

> “Drōgon, kostilus. Skoriot emagon ao maghatan issa?” = Drogon, please. Where have you brought me?
> 
> It's gonna be a rough few first chapters, but you know how I like my angst: with a happy ending. 
> 
> We hope this fic will help slowly but surely mend your Jonerys heart, just like it did for us :)
> 
> PS: Fuck D&D.


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